


But it does - But it wasn't

by lyingmary



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M, artistlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:48:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyingmary/pseuds/lyingmary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Artist!lock- </p><p>"You knew before we got together that art is first and foremost. You knew that! It's hardly my fault you cant handle it like you thought you could!"</p><p> </p><p>"Art may come first, but that doesn't mean you have to ignore everything else! You come first in my world, but that doesn't mean I can't pay attention to all the other little things in the world!"</p><p>"I didn't ask you to put me first. That was your choice." Sherlock stated simply. </p><p>"Yes, it was my choice and it looks like it was a fabulously horrid decision!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	But it does - But it wasn't

Sherlock always painted with furious short strokes. Quick hands flew from one edge of the canvas to the other. The colors burst in stark contrast, yet they complemented each other so wholly. Much like John and Sherlock themselves. One was a subdued olive green and the other a vibrant cobalt. The colors shouldn't feel so right. The personalities shouldn't fit together. The relationship shouldn't work. 

 

But it does. 

 

The dull and torn leather couch scraped against the wooden floor as the men of baker street pushed it away. The furniture was piling up on one half of the room. The cherry stained chairs were stacked on top the deep chestnut desk. Sherlock's liquorice black recliner was laying diagonally across the platform by the window. The sad green curtains were thrown back and the whiskey colored sun streamed in. Through all this, John's chair remained untouched. It was the constant in the chaos, just like John was for Sherlock. Happily, they rolled out the final change- a bright white canvas that stretched from one end of the wall where the couch once sat to the other end. 

 

John straighten his back and proudly nodded at their handy work. Each time they moved the furniture it seemed as though it had a bit more organization than the last time. Sherlock stood staring at the blank slate while John sauntered away to the kitchen. Sherlock pushed up the sleeves of his plum shirt and hunch over in what John labeled his "pre-painting planning pose." His peach fingers drummed against the rosy cupid's bow. Sherlock rolled his neck, bent over to pick up the unspoilt palette, and laid paint brush to paint.

 

The first few brushes were always the most daunting. They set the mood for the rest of the painting. If the first stroke was too dark, the painting would be too dark. If the first stroke was too heavy, the painting would be to heavy. If the first stroke was too light or too bright or too horizontal or too vertical or too much anything the painting would fail. 

 

John smiled at the radiance Sherlock always gave off when he got a good feeling about his next project. It was true and genuine, like the color yellow or red. John suspected Sherlock had no idea he was even doing it, but John bathed in it. John bathed in the unfettered happiness that wasn't often allowed to be seen. He set about making tea. He hummed softly, feeding off the mood Sherlock expelled. The kettle rattled and screamed angrily once the water boiled. Soon John was carrying two hot mugs into the sitting room. 

 

The thick sound of paint squelching from it tube filled the small apartment. Yellow paint that reminded John of the harvest poured from below his foot. There was a brief moment when silence filled the air before John spoke.

 

 

"Dammit, Sherlock. You have to watch where you leave your paint." 

 

"It's alright. I don't believe I'll be needing that color anyway." Sherlock ignored the problem at hand in favor of adding to his canvas. 

 

John practically seethed. 

 

He had to close his eyes and count to ten before moving along. John placed his on tea cup on the table that had survived the massacre of the sitting room. He snuck up behind Sherlock and wound one arm around his torso. Sherlock jumped at the unexpected offer of forgiveness. 

 

"Oh, look." Sherlock pointed to where his paint brush had dragged too heavily across the painting when he jumped. "You've made me ruin the picture and now I must start again!"

 

"Wrong." John cooed.

 

"Wrong?" Sherlock's eyebrows were pulled tight in confusion. "How am I wrong?"

 

"I didn't ruin the painting." 

 

Sherlock merely scoffed. 

 

"All I did was add my little touch. That part, right there," John pointed with the hand that was holding Sherlock mug of tea to the small imperfection. "That part is the Watson influence. My piece of your master piece."

 

"Hush, don't say it aloud. You'll jinx it." Sherlock sighed into John's hold and John rest his chin on the crook of Sherlock's neck. 

 

"I thought you weren't superstitious." 

 

"I'm not, but it doesn't hurt to believe in something."

 

"No, I suppose not." John traded Sherlock's palette for a mug of tea. 

 

-

 

The unsteady silver of the moon shone down into the now artificially lit room. Sherlock was still focused on the same 6 by 6 inch area as he had been when he started hours early. John has spent those hours watching Sherlock with rapt enthusiasm. He had attempted to read or write or look up recent scientific journals to only find himself looking back to Sherlock. This stage of Sherlock was his favorite. This was when he was still eager and excited for the next stroke. Soon, though, each mark will come with painful diligence. Each bristle must be perfectly align and each shape must be perfectly proportioned. For when a man knows not how to paint, it is easy than a man who does. 

 

"Come to bed, Sherlock." John laid a soft hand on his lower back. He caressed the spot where sweat had turned the plum color of the shirt to a darker and richer royal purple. 

 

"Can't" Sherlock answered. 

 

"Or won't?" John questioned. "Because I don't believe those are the same thing." 

 

"Both." 

 

John sighed and left Sherlock with a lingering touch. He had learned early on that he must pick his battles with a man like Sherlock Holmes. There's no way Sherlock was sleeping tonight, not with all the creativity surging through his whole body. John respected that. 

 

Before tottering off to bed, John placed a plate that held a sandwich a crisp, should Sherlock get hungry at night. 

 

-

 

On day three, John awoke hazy and not quite on, like a dim shade of grey. He stumbled from the bedroom that he had once again spent the night alone in. A cup of tea and piece of toast later, John made his way to the sitting room. He had already sat down before realizing Sherlock wasn't standing at the great canvas that was still more bare than coated. John blink a few times and looked down to the floor. Sherlock slept curled up on the cold wooden floor. John cast a fond smile before standing up. He carefully side-stepped the various tubes of paint and kneeled next to Sherlock. 

 

"Hey," John whispered. 'You can't sleep on the ground." 

 

"I don't see why not." Sherlock grumbled and tightened into a ball. John laughed soundlessly and placed a warm hand to Sherlock upper arm. The hand pulsed a golden heat through Sherlock trembling body. Sleeping in the sitting room with out a blanket in the winter was most certainly not a good idea. John unfurled Sherlock like a a pair of tangled up head phone wires. Efficient hands pulled on his left arm, then his right, eventually Sherlock was spread out on the ground. John hooked his arms beneath Sherlock's armpits and crossed around to his shoulder blades. With a grunt John pulled him to stand.   

 

Once Sherlock stood up he sparked into action. 

 

"Oh! John, I just had the most brilliant revelation!" He ran to his palette and squeezed out the softest sea foam green. Long and sinewy arms flew about and marked the canvas in an irrevocable manor. John had never seen another man paint the way Sherlock did. It was so unique to him, as was everything else the young artist did. Due to his lack of patience, Sherlock never allowed the previous layer of paint to dry before slathering on the next colors. The oils were thick and heavy, practically sculpted into movement. The paints of the previous layer peer through the upper layers. Through the pale yellows a harsh red popped. Through the bold chartreuse a calm lavender dulled. 

 

John lost himself in watching Sherlock. He was captivating. John had been meaning to get him in the shower and to bed, or at least change his shirt. The shirt he wore now bared a few shades of blue and one shade of pink. Sherlock arms were coated in paint. The firm strokes reminded John of scars. At the tip of his nose a small bit of brown paint sat. Then John's eyes wandered up to his hair. Intertwined with the rich chocolate curls was the most brilliant grey-silver. 

 

This is what he will look like when he is old. Still manic and painting and beautiful. John thought to himself. I think I love him. 

 

Love was a dangerous thought when you were with Sherlock. The man hardly showed any emotion, but contempt when not painting. John had resigned long ago to the fact his love will always be one sided. Simple fact of the relationship is that John loved Sherlock more than Sherlock loved John 

 

The day was rearing up to be about lunch time before John noted the clock. Sherlock still flew about adding the tiniest of details and showed no signs of stopping. John sighed and began to cook. The warmed broth for the soup was a rich amber. It look much like a fine ale. The clean white chicken and the brown wheat noodles added to the monotonous color scheme of the soup, but the bright orange carrot broke that. John ladled out two bowl of soup and dropped in spoons. He padded into the sitting room and laid Sherlock's bowl down by the buckets that held all his brushes and paints. 

 

As expected Sherlock ignored the bowl of soup till it too cold to be enjoyable. John accepted defeat and put the soup into the fridge. When he stepped back into the sitting room he had to stop himself from stumbling. 

 

Sherlock had stripped out of his shirt and shoes. His posh black trousers were rolled up and exposed ghostly white ankles. The broad expanse of Sherlock chest was calling to be touched, so John did. John ran his callous palms up and down and all around his back. John paid special attention to the knotted muscles in his neck to shoulder region. His hands looked almost copper in comparison to Sherlock fair skin.   

 

Lips the color of salmon pressed butterfly kisses up Sherlock's neck. He lolled his head to the side as an invitation for John to continue. And continue John did. He kissed up to the cheekbones any sculptor would kill to be able to recreate and back around to Sherlock's own lips. They stood in front of the canvas grappling at each other. Mindful of the half-empty tubes of oils strewn about the room, they made their way to John's chair. 

 

John sat down first and Sherlock straddled his thighs. The kiss evolved into something much fiercer and laced with a hint of more to come. Hips pushed together and lips moved at a bruising pace. Sherlock dipped his head and nipped along John's jaw. John's breathe grew ragged and moist. Sherlock pulled back and cupped John's face. He left behind a burgundy stain the shade of red wine 

 

John would swear that if electricity had a color it surely would be the same as Sherlock's eyes. The blue eyes were like fine crystals with hints of emeralds and amethysts mixed in. It was the perfect moment.

 

But it wasn't.

 

Something shifted in Sherlock mind and he jumped up. John heard the quiet muttering of brilliant and conductor of light.  He gave Sherlock a watery smile and watched the mad genius carry on painting. 

 

-

 

It was five days later. Five days with out so much as a second glance from Sherlock. John loved to see Sherlock so happy and excited about his project, but couldn't he just say hello to John? Maybe even a kiss? Why was that so hard? 

 

John knew Sherlock was like this. John knew that going into this relationship, but that doesn't mean it hurts any less being ignored. John was sad and a bit snappish. Sherlock was too much better. He morphed into the tortured artist who couldn't express what he wanted through his work. He snarled at the painting and placed the brush to the canvas with something that could only be described as timidness. 

 

"John!"

 

"What?" John quipped from behind his paper.

 

"I'd like some tea." 

 

"Mmm, yes. So would I." John made no move to get up.

 

"Well," Sherlock drawled.

 

"Well, what?" 

 

"Are you going to make it?" 

 

"Nope."

 

"John!"

 

"Sherlock!" 

 

Sherlock huffed and continued painting. His wrists flicked sharply and angrily. 

 

The sky was striped with violet, puce, gold, and crimson before anyone spoke again in 221b. This time it was John to break the silence.  He figured he had waiting long of enough for Sherlock to stop ignoring him and frankly was just feeling down right bullish. 

 

"You know, what?" John dropped his mug in the sink. "This isn't working."

 

"Hmm," Sherlock answered. 

 

"All you care about is that god damned painting and I'm sick of it! All I do is support you! Up the least you could do is show some gratitude."

 

"Yes, John." Sherlock replied automatically. 

 

"This is what I mean. I'm telling you this relationship isn't working because your ignoring me and what do you do? Ignore me!" 

 

This caught Sherlock attention. He spun around to face John. 

 

"You knew before we got together that art is first and foremost. You knew that! It's hardly my fault you cant handle it like you thought you could!"

 

John's face turned to a brilliant carmine. 

 

"Art may come first, but that doesn't mean you have to ignore everything else! You come first in my world, but that doesn't mean I can't pay attention to all the other little things in the world!"

 

"I didn't ask you to put me first. That was your choice." Sherlock stated simply. 

 

"Yes, it was my choice and it looks like it was a fabulously horrid decision!" John threw himself down the hall and into the bedroom.

 

-

 

John sat on the edge of bed for a few moments to calm down. Right now he just needed a one of those pills that knock you out so he could just sleep until Sherlock was finished and he could talk about this with a rational adult. Not that he was one, right now. 

 

His hand curled around a silver handle and yanked open the drawer roughly. The abrupt movement sent all the contents flying out and on the ground. 

 

"Shit."

 

John bent over to pick up everything. First he tossed the bottle of pills on the bed and then he started tossing things back into the draw. A few papers, Lestrade's art dealer license, Sherlock's phone, a book, and something John hadn't seen before. It was a small moleskin note pad. A charcoal pencil tucked inside and a elastic loop holding together the well worn book. John slide of the loop and it snapped up against the back of the note pad. A couple sheets of paper fell lose. John carefully unfolded the paper and saw a quick sketch of himself smiling up at him.  

 

"What the hell?" 

 

John unfolded the rest of the papers to see more of the same. The whole note pad was filled with pictures of him. His expressions ranged from all ends of the spectrum. Happy, sad, angry, content, sated, bristled, protective. Name it and it was drawn. As John flipped through he saw a few captions. 

 

The first time I saw him

 

After our first kiss

 

After our first shag

 

"Only, Sherlock." John laughed. With each turn of the page his anger waned. The stunning detail that these pictures offered was enough to prove that Sherlock did pay attention to John. It actually showed that he payed an extreme amount of attention to John. Every sketch depicted him so perfectly and realistically. Sherlock even drew in little minutiae that even John wasn't aware he did.

 

Sherlock drew the way John's hair line fell rather than his eyebrows going up when he was surprised. John stood and looked in the mirror. Sherlock was right, as always.  

 

John dropped the tan moleskin note pad on the bed and ran out to Sherlock. Sherlock was still painting like a mad man. His jaw was locked in anger and his eyes were foggy. If they were foggy with tears, John kindly ignored it.

 

"Sherlock," that was the only warning he was given before he found himself being yanked down into a fierce kiss. It was by no stretch of the imagination chaste. The kiss was made of all teeth and tongue. 

 

Sherlock dropped his palette and brush in favor of tangling his fingers into John's hair. Sherlock stepped into John's hold. John wasted no time and his hands began to wander down to Sherlock's belt. With a metallic clink the buckle hit the ground. Soon, the button and zipper of his trousers were undone. When John tried to slide down the obtrusive garment Sherlock pushed away his hands. John growled into his mouth. Sherlock took one step toward the bedroom and John got the idea. John was a bit more clever than Sherlock let him think. They stumbled down the hall shucking socks and shoes along the way. 

 

Sherlock pushed John up against the wall. He ducked his head a nipped along John's jaw. Little teeth marks bloomed up and a perfect red mark was worried into the soft juncture between his ear and neck. John's breath dripped down Sherlock's spine in hard pants. Sherlock stubble scraped across the bite marks. John was so far gone that the pain registered as pleasure and he shuddered. Sherlock stepped back. His hands stroked down the front of John's shirt and up under the hemline. John pulled off the striped cashmere. Hands, lips, and mouth exploded the wide canvas of John's freshly bared torso. Once every ridge and valley and freckle had been catalogued, Sherlock stepped back. He walked toward the bedroom leaving a flat palm to slide across John's breast and down his arm. John clasped onto Sherlock's hand. With a shiver, he followed.

 

Once they crossed the threshold of the bedroom the mood slipped into something a little less urgent. It changed from something about lust and instant gratification to  something more reverent. The door shut and the midnight black closed around them. They reached out for each other in the darkness. The only noise was the wet sounds of lip on lip. Soothing finger traced along Sherlock's nape and down his back. John dipped his fingers into the small of Sherlock back, then into his trousers. They fell from his thin hips and landed with a dull thud. Carefully, John walked Sherlock to the edge of the bed. The skin behind his knees hit the mattress and Sherlock gracefully fell back.

 

John snapped on the lamp and it's shown with a dull yellow the color of a Manila folder. Sherlock's pale skin glowed in contrast with the silky midnight blue sheets. John's eye rolled up from his ankles to the lascivious hint carved into his smile.

 

"Please, don't gawk. It's not flattering." Sherlock chided. His voice was laced with a good natured undertone. 

 

"Yes, alright." John tossed away his trousers before straddling Sherlock. Sherlock's broad hands found a home on his hips. He bent over and whispered into Sherlock's ear. "So, what do you want?" 

 

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. 

 

"Anything." Sherlock breathed out. John smiled down at him and worked down Sherlock's pants.

 

A tongue the color of raspberries licked a thick stripe up Sherlock's neck. If later asked, Sherlock would deny the loud groan and soft whimper. John just smiled and rolled his hips in shallow waves. 

 

"John," Sherlock gasped. He bucked his hips up to match each of John's grinding circles. "John, take off your pants." 

 

John merely laid on top of Sherlock and raised his hip. Sherlock guided down the plain steel colored shorts. Once they were both free Sherlock wrapped a hand around them. His hand grown use to their shape and quite skilled. Years of painting taught him exactly how to flick your wrist. 

 

Together they thrust steadily. Small sparks built up deep inside. The electric feel of their sweat and musk gliding along pushed them closer to the edge. Sherlock broke the easy rhythm and rutted wildly into his hand. With a sated groan, Sherlock finished. John closed his own fist around himself and pulled furiously until he followed Sherlock. 

 

John had barely laid down next to Sherlock before he popped up and shot out of the room. John sighed and scrubbed his face. He took a deep breath, stood to clean off with a near by cloth, and padded out toward the sitting room. 

 

- 

 

Sherlock jumped from one end of the painting to the other. Hair wild and debauched. A firm blue smear of cobalt oil paint covered his bum. John came up behind him.

 

"Sherlock, at least clean off." 

 

"That can wait."

 

"Well, no. Generally hygiene is important. Plus, I really don't want to hear you complaining when it dries." 

 

Sherlock ignored him. John cocked his head to the left and watched as the painting came alive. He watched The muscles in Sherlock's back clench and relax with each stroke. He watched as Sherlock bounced from one foot to the other. He watched how Sherlock would lick his lips when he had to concentrate a bit harder on a particular sections. 

 

The cloth was long since forgotten. It fell to the ground with a wet plop. 

 

"Well, it's done." Sherlock stepped back from the canvas. His placed his palette and brushes into the little box he used for storage. "What do you think?"

 

"I, um," John began. "I actually hate it." 

 

Sherlock laughed and shot him a fake look of horror. 

 

"Well, that's a bit forward, isn't it?" Sherlock questioned. 

 

"Let's face it, you would have figured out I hated it anyways," Sherlock nodded in agreement. "Plus, it's never been about the painting." 

 

Sherlock turned to look at John. 

 

"It's not about the painting, it's always been about the painter." 

 

- 

 

They sat in front of the giant painting on up turned buckets and chewed on sandwich. 

 

"It is quite ugly." Sherlock commented. 

 

"It has its good parts," John laughed. "Yeah, actually no. You did a spectacularly horrible job."

 

Sherlock dipped his finger in a puddle of purple paint and tap John's nose. 

 

"Oi!" John yelped. 

 

"Serves you right." Peaceful silence held for a few moments. "You found the sketch book didn't you?" 

 

"How- you, know what? It doesn't matter." John shrugged. "I did find it."

 

Sherlock picked up more purple paint and swirled his fingers around John's chest. When he looked down he saw a perfectly drawn and  anatomically correct heart covering where his real heart was burrowed deep below. He smiled. 

 

"I love you." John spilled out. His chest constricted. How could he go and botch up a perfect moment like that? They were- 

 

"I love you, too."     

 

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta and not Brit-picked. 
> 
> My first attempt at sex. It's bad, but how much can you expect from an asexual?  
> And yes, I purposely avoided crass and direct language during that scene.
> 
> P.s. I imagined John and Sherlock being younger... As in their early 20s. Because the truth is I can't imagine 40 year John Watson parading about naked.


End file.
